And Never Step Outside This Bed
by Funky In Fishnet
Summary: Thranduil does not understand his preoccupation with Bard, a Man who does not define himself by his crown. But they are moved by the same breeze.


_**Disclaimer:** I own nothing._

 _ **Author Note:** Set after the movie trilogy._

* * *

 **AND NEVER STEP OUTSIDE THIS BED**

Bard had slipped easily into sleep some time ago but Thranduil had not. Instead, he watched his companion. There were audiences upcoming he could steep thought on and messages to answer, Legolas had sent one only two nights ago. But when Thranduil looked at scrolls and ink, he found his gaze pulled back, always, like the gentlest breeze guiding leaves and branches, to the Man sleeping in his bed.

How strange it was for this Man, this commoner who had become King, to become so dominant amongst Thranduil's thoughts. There was a bluntness to King Bard of Dale, a copious unrefined quality. He was often caked with dirt and dust, still working with his hands, still a part of rebuilding Dale and in Laketown. He did not dress finely as a King should, he did not wield his power emphatically. And Thranduil had never trusted Men, their fleeting lives, their avarice and the shallowness of their thoughts and desires. How they had been weak in battle with Mordor and Thranduil's father had fallen.

Then Durins had returned to Erebor and the dragon had flown and there had been a battle like none Thranduil had seen since...since he had been scarred and his wife had been lost to the forces of Angmar.

Bard's desires were simple – his family's safety, his people's survival. His perspective stayed imminently practical, shadowed and guided by loss and pain. He never pushed hard against the Dwarves and he did not command his people as entirely as a King should, nor did he punish greatly enough those who moved against him.

But Thranduil's gaze had been drawn to him over and over, as they had spoken of Thorin Oakenshield and how to take Erebor, as they had fought the great battle in filth and blood. Thranduil had thought of his father, his wife, his son, of Tauriel so banished for her actions, of friends and kin who had died beside him. So often his eyes had found Bard.

And after, when they had met as part of a council of Men, Dwarves and Elves, the same had held true. Bard's family lived and he had sat straight-backed, uncomfortable at being addressed as King of Dale and Master of Laketown, no matter how true the titles held. He should have been proud of them, he should have worn them as easily as his sword. He still led for his people, he was still serious and steadfast and spoke with sense and insight that no Dwarf ever possessed. He did not hope for tomorrow, he did not seek gold or hoarding, he was not Laketown's previous Master, unlamented and brined in greed. His people followed him, looked to him as they should. Yet Bard bridled under the new titles that were his by right.

Thranduil did not understand him but his gaze was always drawn to Bard. And he had observed that Bard's gaze was equally drawn to him.

When one day, as inevitably as a winter wind, their mouths deigned to meet, there was the full taste of fruit with a trace of skinned bitterness.

Now Bard sometimes travelled to Mirkwood, as King of Dale and Master of Laketown, as Elf Friend and Ambassador. And Thranduil travelled to Dale, as King of Mirkwood. There were often nights that ended with Bard sleeping and Thranduil observing the scars and hardened skin that encased him, observing everything.

Thranduil had spent time in Bard's house, he had spend time with Bard's offspring. The eldest, Sigrid, was like her father, steadfast and bearing responsibility great for her narrow shoulders. She had been mother to sister and brother for many years, her hands roughened by such toil, her spirit wisened. Bain wished to hear tales of Legolas and battle. Tilda wished to hear about Thranduil's crowns, the spring flowers that became red leaves and berries. Then she wanted to touch Thranduil's hair. Whatever memories stirred in such moments were never spoken of.

Bard stirred and Thranduil observed the contrast of his skin against Bard's. One night, after words of much variety and long hours, Bard had seen Thranduil's ruined face. He had not run from it. His mouth had ghosted closer than any other had come.

Now, Thranduil kissed Bard, warmth to warmth. The taste was the same, Thranduil sought more, he sought answers. It would not be long before Bard would push and Thranduil would not be caught unawares and they would turn and turn and turn.

Thranduil's fingers explored now-familiar dips and plains of bone, the skin that told of suffering and perseverance. Bard did not wear his royalty in flesh, nor did he wear it in clothing. He detested his crown. Thranduil still kissed him, still drew fingertip shapes of berries, leaves and flowers across Bard's skin, still feasted on the twist of Bard's lips, the abandon, the release he gave to Thranduil that he gave to no other, before pushing and demanding, needing, the same...with Bard.

There were songs of mortal lovers of Elves, of pain and decisions made. Thranduil had never been moved by them. He felt a tune now though and an embrace, lying great and malevolent in his throat.

 _-the end_


End file.
